


Intrusion

by Semianonymity



Series: Werewolves [3]
Category: Toriko (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semianonymity/pseuds/Semianonymity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Komatsu's pack isn't enough to dissuade Starjun from sniffing around. With the Bishokukai pack making threats, and Starjun far too aware of Komatsu's involvement with the Kings, danger threatens again. Werewolf AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Encroachment

**Author's Note:**

> This fic comes quite a while after [The Woods at Night](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1935705). I'm not writing stories from this particular 'verse in order, so other stories in-between those two are likely.

Toriko growled when Komatsu walked through the door, low and threatening and completely unexpected—Komatsu looked up in surprise, shocked when he saw Toriko, his open-mouthed snarl, his half-transformed state, claws digging into the couch.

“Toriko—what is it?”

He knew that Toriko would protect him, whatever—whoever—it was, so he was hurrying forward when Toriko leapt, wrapping Komatsu up not just with his arms but his whole body, wrapping around him and—shaking?

“Toriko? Toriko, I'm worried—”

“Who was it? Who visited the restaurant today, they—I can smell the _scent_ of them on you.”

Komatsu shook his head automatically; it had been a day like any other. Except—

“He—he came in the mid-afternoon lull, he was tall, long black hair, very quiet, polite, and I—he ordered too much food, I should have realized, but I'm used to cooking for _you_ and it wasn't enough to fill up a werewolf, I never suspected anything. Sta—something, or no, Starjun, he paid with a card and signed his name Starjun. He brushed past me when he left, he touched my hand, and I never even _realized_.”

“Nothing you could have done,” Toriko said tightly, pulling Komatsu even closer, pressing his face into Komatsu's shoulder.

“Toriko—who was he?”

“I don't know,” Toriko said, grim. “Werewolf. Bishokukai. It was a _threat_ , an encroachment on your _territory_.”

Coco had slipped into the room, almost ghostlike, and he sank to his knees, then wrapped himself around Komatsu's other side, Toriko shifting just enough to let him, so that Komatsu was sandwiched between them.

“Toriko—that means nothing to him. Komatsu, the Bishokukai are another pack, and they're—we were never as, as _nice_ a pack as we could have been. The Bishokukai are worse. They're warped, they don't hunt humans but they _slaughter_ them. We've fought with them before.”

“And they're—why _me?_ I'm not a threat, and—I don't know why he was at the restaurant!”

“ _Your_ territory,” Toriko growled, voice rumbling through his chest, Komatsu feeling it in his bones as much as—even more than—he felt it.

“It was a taunt,” Coco said. “A threat. I don't—it's unlikely they realize that you're our alpha, even the one who visited today, but you smell like all of us. He left his scent on you, slipped into the heart of our territory—”

Komatsu made a noise of dismay. “Should I take a shower? I don't—I can't smell it, really, but I _want_ to smell like pack! Not like—not like him.” He shuddered, realizing that that was why the stranger had found a handful of small, inconsequential ways to touch him. It had been a violation, and he'd never even realized it. It was a world away from Coco's hand sliding over his back or hair, Sunny's full-bodied sprawl against him, Zebra's rough abrupt hugs, Toriko pressing his face to Komatsu to scent him, to mark him, his open shameless hedonistic pleasure in the way that Komatsu smelled like them, that they all smelled like Komatsu.

Toriko tightened his arms around Komatsu reflexively, growling, clearly unwilling to let him go. Komatsu didn't really want to leave. His restaurant—as much his home as his apartment, and even more so in some ways, at least before he'd met the Kings—was one of his refuges, he felt _safe_ there, and now he was in danger and, worse, his Kings were maybe in danger—especially since they could attack him, the weakest link. Small, human, _helpless_.

“...May I?” Coco asked, hesitating on the upper button of Komatsu's whites.

Before Komatsu could nod or speak, Toriko had hooked one of his claws into the fabric, pulling it through like a hot knife through butter—not just his wolf claws, then, but some of his Knife as well. It was an attack, really, but Komatsu couldn't be afraid of the deadly weapon the barest fraction of an inch from the soft skin of his belly. It was Toriko.

This time, Coco growled at Toriko, snapping. “Ask!” he insisted, Toriko's ears going back for a moment, Komatsu momentarily, for a split-second, worried about a fight, but then Toriko acquiesced, licking Komatsu's cheek in a gesture that the chef had learned to recognize was apologetic.

Coco shifted a little, and pulled the garment off of Komatsu, Toriko growling as it was tossed away, pulling close again immediately, pressing his face to the muscle of Komatsu's bare chest, dragging it to the curve of each hipbone and the slight swell of his stomach, mouthing as he went—not so much kisses as obliterating Starjun's touch and the smell of it, replacing him with Komatsu's pack.

As awful as the circumstances were, Komatsu wanted to be here, exactly like this—Coco pressed against him, Toriko wrapped around him, his pack, his Kings, so close. He was just missing Sunny and Zebra—and their absence was a vague worry, now that he knew a rival pack had moved in, made threats.

The rest of the day, Coco and Toriko were his shadows, even more than they usually were. And when Sunny and Zebra arrived, wide-eyed and jumpy, after Coco made a few phone calls, his voice too-calm, tightly controlled, and _dangerous_ , they shadowed him too. It was comforting. Komatsu felt guilty for feeling that way—because, after all, the pack was gathered around _him_ because he was the weak one, the breaking point, a target—but maybe it was for the Kings, too. Strength in numbers, a pack was stronger than the sum of its parts, and Komatsu couldn't make himself feel guilty for the fierce pride he had, being a part of them. The four of them were—magnificent, fierce and wild and extraordinary, and they'd changed. They worked better as a unit now; the fights were less serious, they didn't leave physical or emotional wounds the way they had before. And Komatsu knew he'd missed the worst of it.

He was so relieved they didn't have to be alone anymore.

He'd never imagined this for himself, never thought of _pack_ before werewolves had become some of the most important people in his life, but he was almost as relieved that he didn't have to be alone anymore, either.

* * *

It turned out that a werewolf pack on high alert was amazingly clingy.

Komatsu was jumpy with the constant reminder that he needed to worry—even if the greater part of him loved the time with them. (Every so often, he wished he had a _little_ more space. Just sometimes, when Zebra was looming in a corner of the kitchen and unsettling his staff, or Sunny was staring at him with open appreciation and optimistic hunger when Komatsu was trying to shower at the end of a long, exhausting day, blushing with pleasure at the rapt attention and too tired to do much with it.) They already practically lived together—the Kings still had apartments of their own, and they'd go off when they needed to or wanted to. Komatsu was thinking, with sharp hope and a little nervousness, about maybe—maybe—looking for a larger apartment when his lease was up in a few months. Looking with the Kings, all five of them.

That was something to think about later, with the specter of the Bishokukai lingering over them. The last full moon, the Kings had never left him with less than two of them, and stayed close to hunt—closer than they usually did. And they'd found carcasses left by other werewolves—Bishokukai wolves, mostly from Starjun, but the pack scent recognizable even when it was too old for specifics, or left by another werewolf.

Komatsu was too conscious of all the people around him, all the time. Of the strangers walking in the door of the restaurant, of all the people who passed him on the street, of all the innocent, uninvolved passers-by who were at risk because Komatsu was at risk, and a werewolf that would eat humans wouldn't care about who got caught in the crossfire.

It was a relief to get a few days off in a row, a rare two-day break for Komatsu—Coco and especially Sunny argued that he overworked himself, usually when he was trying to spend the day cooking for them on his day off—and a good opportunity to take Toriko into the woods, looking for the morels that had just started to appear.

“Over there!” Toriko announced, his grin all teeth, pointing off towards a far stand of trees, and—

“Toriko! Are you _smelling_ them?” Komatsu had to ask, delighted and amazed as he always was—sometimes, it caught him by surprise, his Kings, but more and more it was just the fabric of his life.

“Yes,” Toriko said, his tail wagging slowly—more than any of the others, Toriko spent a lot of time half-transformed, in-between wolf and human. In the apartment, or out in the woods, late nights at the restaurant when all the other staff were gone. Komatsu had learned the feeling of his fur against his skin, the prickle of his teeth, how to read the movements of mobile ears still half-hidden under the spill of Toriko's blue human hair.

“That's fantastic! And—oooo, wild huckleberries! Maybe we can get enough for a pie!”

Toriko half-tackled him in sudden playful delight, Komatsu shrieking with surprise and joy as Toriko's arms closed around him, rolling them into a drift of leaves, warm and sure and protective as Toriko enthusiastically licked his face.

Komatsu did his best to lick him back, just to startle a laugh—a voiced human one and a wolfy one visible in the ears and eyes—out of Toriko. And because—

Komatsu didn't think he'd ever, before the Kings, had anyone understand how much love Komatsu put into his cooking. Most of all for those closest to him. But they seemed to—not just see it, but adore it, and to try to give some of that love back—bringing him things to eat, unprepared ingredients or something they thought he'd like, letting him know how much they loved the meals he cooked for them, making sure he got enough to eat, too. It left him so full of joy he thought he might burst.

“Love you,” he whispered, to Toriko, because he was human and needed to say those things, and he thought the Kings—weren't human, but weren't wolf, they were _werewolf_ , and human-like enough to need to hear it, too.

“Yours,” Toriko whispered back, with bone-deep satisfaction. It made Komatsu's eyes prickle with tears, overwhelmed with joy, and he had to kiss him for that. He tugged on Toriko's shirt, leading Toriko up, and Toriko shifted until his back was against a thin tree, Komatsu in his arms, and there were leaves caught in their hair, damp leaves that had somehow slipped down through Komatsu's collar, itching strangely at his back, there was leaf mold on Toriko's shirt and shoulders and it was all _perfect_. Komatsu had to kiss him, breathlessly, the hungry, greedy noise Toriko made indecent—but they were alone in the woods, and he knew that Toriko would hear anyone coming from a long ways off, smell them even sooner, and more than anything else, Komatsu just wanted to make Toriko make that noise again, wanted to see the starry desire in his eyes when he pulled back just a bit—

There was someone watching them, to Toriko's back, heavy black boots and crisply pressed pants unsuited for hiking in the woods. Komatsu's grip went rigid, and even before he reacted, he could feel Toriko's muscles go tense, and his growl rip through his chest, pressing Komatsu even closer, just shy of painful.

There was a whirl of motion, and when Komatsu could blink through the sudden dizziness, he was looking at Toriko's back, hunched and mostly-human, huge lethal claws on his feet, digging into the ground, and on his hands, splayed in obvious threat. Beyond him was Starjun.

There was no sound except the low thunder of Toriko's growl, like the whole forest had fallen silent to watch what was going on—or like everything had fled in the face of a battle between two powerful werewolves. Starjun was eerily silent, eyes flat and watchful, something like a banked fire flickering in their depths. Komatsu _ached_ , with fear and guilt and regret.

When Toriko and Starjun blurred into motion, Komatsu could barely track them, not getting anything more than an impression of Toriko's white-and-gray fur, his tan skin and the shock of his blue hair vivid against the muted browns and oranges of the fall woodland, blending into Starjun's long sweeping fall of black hair, pale skin, his charcoal-and-not-quite-black fur, as they rippled back and forth from more human to less and back again.

Even Komatsu could smell the blood in the air, as Starjun tore at Toriko's arm and abdomen, Toriko biting down on Starjun's leg to release steaming blood that stained the tattered remains of his pants and his leg.

It was vicious, brutal, _awful_ , and Komatsu was helpless—no service, too far away from a cell tower to call the others, and they were doubtless too far away to come in time. Komatsu was afraid to bring any of Starjun's attention to him, because he was terrified by the cold, vicious regard he'd been given, so clearly _prey_ in his eyes—and even more because he was afraid that if Starjun attacked him, it would distract Toriko, hurt him, give him something else to need to worry on in a fight that was all a hair-thin line between giving and getting injury. It was incredible, in some ways. He'd seen Toriko play-fighting with the other Kings, he'd seen their arguments get physical, sometimes violent enough to scare him—but nothing like this, two werewolves ready to fight to the death.

Starjun was still eerily quiet, even as he slammed a fist into Toriko's head, twisted to avoid a lethal kick from clawed feet, broke away to look at the scene with his face as set and cold as glacial ice, his eyes burning.

Toriko was favoring his right side, panting heavily, face sheeted with blood and pulled into a furious snarl. He didn't seem aware of the awful injuries that left the ground beneath him almost black with blood. The wound on his leg was so deep that, horrified, Komatsu realized he could see the white glint of bone.

It was too much. He was crying, he'd been crying for a while, almost silently, tears falling down his face and breath choked. He was helpless, Toriko still right in front of him, _protecting_ him, steady and tensed to fight even though he had to hurt so _much_.

When Starjun leapt again, so fast Komatsu couldn't track him, fast enough to catch even Toriko off guard, Komatsu screamed, already too late. Starjun's claws raked already-torn thigh muscle, and Toriko went down hard. And didn't get up.

Komatsu moved without thinking.

The ground was muddy with blood, enough that Komatsu slipped in it as he scrambled to Toriko's side, tears still falling down his face, silent awful weeping. It was something more than instinct but not at all like thought, something he couldn't have ignored any more than he could stop his heartbeat—a part of who he was.

He knew it was ridiculous.

Komatsu didn't throw himself at Toriko's side, didn't try—uselessly—to stifle the worst of the bleeding. He didn't try to run away. Komatsu stood in front of Toriko, as determined to protect the werewolf as Toriko had been to protect him. He'd drawn his kitchen knife—just a _knife,_ and he knew that he couldn't move fast enough to cut Starjun, that he probably couldn't even _register_ Starjun's movements before he was bleeding out on the ground, but he would die trying to protect his partner the way Toriko had tried to protect him.

“That's no weapon—you'd wield a kitchen knife against me?” Starjun's voice was calm, unruffled, even though he himself was dirty and bloody—some of it his own blood, where Toriko's teeth and claws had injured him. It made him seem even less human, or no, _inhuman_ , in a way that the Kings never had been—or at least not in a long, long time, since Komatsu had first met them. And even then, it hadn't been like—

This.

“I won't let you kill Toriko,” Komatsu said, voice shaking and tears still tracking down his face, salt and dirt and blood. His eyes tracked over Starjun's body, cataloging arteries, tendons, bones, a butcher's gaze turned to bloody purpose. It made no difference, but Komatsu would try anyway. For Toriko. Who was bleeding behind him—dying, maybe, dead if he was human but he was a _werewolf_ and Komatsu had to believe that there was a chance he'd live.

Or he'd die beside him.

“This doesn't concern you, human,” Starjun said. “You have no chance against me. If you go, I'll let you live.”

“It _concerns_ me,” Komatsu said, voice cracking with emotion and eyes blurring with a fresh wave of tears, but his raised knife steady and unwavering. “You attacked Toriko—you attacked _my pack_ , and you used me to do it—I'll die, I know I'll die, but I won't, I couldn't ever _let_ you hurt Toriko!”

Starjun seemed, at least momentarily, frozen. Breath coming fast with fear and anger and panic, Komatsu choked back a heaving sob, mind suddenly blank as he stared down his oncoming death. He could only think of his Kings, and the certainty of his actions, and the fear that seemed to belong to another person, it was so distant, like he'd left it behind him.

“You'd do this for _him?_ ” Starjun asked, quietly scathing and dryly amused. “You'd—”

“He did it for me,” Komatsu said, voice thin and wavering and still raised to interrupt Starjun.

Before Komatsu could blink, Starjun was moving again, this time towards Komatsu; his claws scored a thin cut all along his cheek, just deep enough for a trickle of blood to wind its way down his face, down his neck, scalding hot on his chilled skin. It burned, but Komatsu wasn't going to move.

Komatsu was staring up—and _up_ —at Starjun, tall, even taller than Toriko, and his body language indecipherable under his icy reserve. The heat radiating off of him was unbelievable, like the dry heat of a desert summer day—not just ice, then. He was as approachable as a bonfire, as human. Komatsu raised his head to meet Starjun's eyes, defiant—he was Toriko's friend, maybe boyfriend, if that was the right word—the right word was _alpha_. Not part of Toriko's pack, because Toriko was a part of _his_.

Starjun started to move again, slow enough for Komatsu to track but far too fast for Komatsu to do more than raise his knife—before Starjun could slice at the tendons and veins of Komatsu's inner wrist, Toriko was leaping _over_ the chef, a vicious snarl reverberating in his throat, blood spattering as he hit Starjun like a speeding train, furious and protective and desperate.

Toriko just barely caught himself when Starjun shook him off, claws digging into the dirt as he came between Komatsu and the Bishokukai werewolf, blood matting his fur and teeth bared in a half-human snarl, clearly struggling just to stand—just as clearly determined to protect Komatsu at any cost. Half behind him—half beside him—Komatsu raised his knife, defiant and desperate and shaking with tears but his hands almost perfectly steady.

Toriko was going to die, and Komatsu would die with him, Komatsu couldn't do anything but _protect him_ , even if Toriko didn't want him to, even if Toriko wanted him to live—because Komatsu had to. He _had_ to. It was written into his bones.

Starjun leaned back, almost all human except for the bloody claws—the blood worse for being stark against pale skin instead of matting dark fur. It was an insult, Komatsu thought, vaguely—that they were so far below him that he barely needed to fight. For Komatsu, it was true, more than true. For Toriko—well, if it weren't for Komatsu, it would be more true.

_Komatsu couldn't leave him to die_. Even knowing how it would hurt his other Kings. His pack. His family. The people most precious to him.

“I won't let you hurt him,” Toriko gasped out, voice tense and trembling with pain.

“I can't let you,” Komatsu echoed.

Starjun sneered—or tried to—Komatsu didn't know, except that his expression was shaky, unfixed, and then it crumpled, as Toriko centered himself more squarely in front of Komatsu, even though he shouldn't—by any rights—been able to move. As Komatsu stared at Starjun, tears streaming down the chef's face, blood drying where the tears hadn't smeared it, and determined despite that to protect the fantastic monster in front of him.

It left Starjun looking lost and bereft, and in Komatsu's own premature grief and overwhelming horror, he didn't know _why_ , or how, or—how he could look like that when he'd done this to the two of them. Komatsu and his werewolf.

Lightning-swift, Starjun turned and walked away. Then he was just—gone. Toriko crumpled, face creased with pain, and Komatsu cried out, involuntary—

He was relieved that Starjun was gone, then horrified when he realized that Toriko was bleeding out beside him, and night was coming fast in the autumnal forest, and he had no cell phone signal and no way to move Toriko, and he didn't know what he wanted—he knew he needed to save Toriko.

Crying, hands hovering over the torn and bleeding flesh, mostly-human and almost all exposed, Toriko's clothes almost all tatters—Komatsu didn't know _how._ What he could do—the first aid he'd learned was for stray cuts from knives, at _worst_ lost digits, always with near-instant medical help available—these were injuries that would have already killed anyone more human. His tears were burning along his cut as they rolled down his cheek—he had a dehydration headache, it was such a little _silly_ thing—

Half-whispering words that were half prayers, half demands, all reassurance, Komatsu started trying to staunch the blood, trying to keep Toriko held together long enough that he wouldn't bleed out, long enough for his unnaturally fast healing to knit the wounds together—no good if he lost too much blood before then.

It felt like forever, and also no time at all, before the other Kings arrived: Coco and Sunny arrows in Zebra's wake, all of them fully wolf-shaped and bounding through the forest right towards them—following the beat of Komatsu's heart. And Toriko's heart, still thumping under Komatsu's fingers.

Komatsu let himself let go. He let himself shake apart, because there were strong arms to wrap around him, to keep him from splintering or shattering. Because Toriko was going to be okay.

* * *

It took him two days to figure out that _Starjun_ had called the Kings.

* * *

Komatsu took a whole week off of work. He wouldn't leave Toriko's side, and when— _when_ —Toriko woke up, he'd need to eat, to replace the energy burned up in healing, the blood that had been lost, and the muscle.

He took a week off because he couldn't leave the Kings. He needed their comfort, and they needed him, and even the thought of the Hotel Gourmet kitchen seemed dangerous, unsafe.

Starjun had tracked him down to his restaurant, after all. That first time. His apartment was just upstairs, but—it made a difference, the three of his other werewolves, his packmates, his boyfriends or _partners_ or whatever you wanted to call them. All four of them, gathered around their fifth, looking out for each other—strength in their bonds, a consolation because he knew, he _knew_ , this was what a pack was, this was the strength, not just greater power but protection, comfort, everything they gave each other. Komatsu didn't want to leave them, for himself. He _couldn't_ leave them, for their sakes.

* * *

Komatsu was in the kitchen when Toriko woke up, hearing the commotion and turning just in time to see Toriko skidding through the kitchen door, almost completely naked and wild-eyed with desperation, and they threw themselves at each other, Komatsu wrapped in Toriko's arms, Toriko sinking to his knees, both shaking, both _crying_ , Komatsu realized, hot tears on his shoulder, the prickle of claws through his shirt, Komatsu trying to keep from hurting Toriko's still-healing wounds, so deep that they were still knitting together, everything slowed by how much _hurt_ there had been, how much damage he'd sustained. Toriko was desperate to run his hands over every inch of Komatsu, feeling whole flesh and unharmed skin, taking shuddering breaths of the smell of him whole and healthy and _happy_.

Sunny followed them, knees folding gracefully before he wrapped an arm around Toriko, Komatsu sandwiched in between them, his other hand yanking Zebra down to join them. Zebra didn't even pretend to grumble, looking as young as he was, for once—Coco looking younger, not even hesitating to join the tangle of bodies on the floor, whole and _alive_.

Komatsu wept, because he'd almost lost Toriko—less because he'd almost died, but that would have left his other three Kings alone, it would have left them wounded after they'd just started to heal the rifts in their pack they'd had when Komatsu had met them—

He couldn't imagine his life without all four of these men, these _werewolves_ , his _pack_ , and Komatsu grieved everything he might have lost, disconsolate except for the comfort of touch, the joy of his pack wrapped around him.

-End chapter 1-


	2. Appeasement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starjun returns, and the subsequent complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic has been changed to 3 chapters instead of 4--the next chapter is the last one!

Three months later, they hadn't seen any sign of the Bishokukai, hadn't scented any strange wolves or found kills that weren't theirs. Toriko was stronger than ever; Komatsu had almost stopped waking up with the scent of Toriko's blood in his mouth, the phantom sensation of Toriko's hot blood slippery and burning on his shock-cold fingers.

The biggest comfort was that he always woke up with Toriko there, whole and unmarred, not even scars lingering anymore. And he knew that Toriko was there for him, and because sometimes Toriko was the one awakened by nightmares, needing the touch and scent and taste of Komatsu, whole and healthy.

But it was over.

* * *

Komatsu hummed as he patted sweat off his face, taking a quick break for water and a snack. The early summer was still mild, but the restaurant kitchens were as sweltering as always, steamy and hot. He let himself slip out the back door into the alley, enjoying the cooler night air, the cool water on his parched throat. He could just barely see a few stars, the rest paled to invisibility by city light, but the moon was a quarter full, waxing, and visible above the dark buildings surrounding him.

Komatsu loved the full moon, a little thump of anticipation in his chest at the thought.

Stretching, Komatsu shook himself, reaching for the sandwich he'd brought with him, smiling softly because _Zebra_ had pushed a lunch bag at him this morning, ears pulled back and face sullen with embarrassment—and he was _sweet_ , even when he was trying to hide it. Relieved, when Komatsu had thanked him, even though Komatsu was and would always be—

At the sound of footprints on the concrete, Komatsu looked up in surprise. For the briefest moment, he brightened, because the shadowed form was tall enough, broad enough, to be Toriko. But then—

Komatsu couldn't even scream as he slammed himself back into the wall, choked with fear and terrified, fighting against what felt like a weight on his chest as he stared at Starjun, his presence suffocating.

“Komatsu,” Starjun said, his voice deep and unruffled and almost _normal_ , except he was—completely unsuited to a dingy, dirty alley, and except that there was nothing normal about him.

“No,” Komatsu whispered. “No, no no—no you can't,” and he was getting louder, he didn't know what he'd do if one of his staff members heard and came to investigate—he didn't want them to die for something they didn't even know anything about.

How far away was Zebra? All the Kings had left, not far but only maybe in town—maybe hunting in the woods. “Zebra! Can you hear—it's Starjun—”

It would _kill them_. To come back and find Komatsu's slaughtered corpse.

He fell silent as Starjun stepped the rest of the way forward, face coming into the light—porcelain pale and serene and _hard_.

“ _Why?_ ” Komatsu asked, demanded, desperate. He was dizzy with fear—and the back of his head was damp, the hair sticky where he'd smacked it too hard against the brick wall.

Starjun was scenting the air—there was no way he'd miss the smell of Komatsu's blood—his mouth half-open and face still blank.

Without a word, Starjun dropped to his knees in the dirty alley, pristine neatly-creased pants and all—Komatsu stared. Starjun didn't stare back, eyes averted, the long sweep of his hair almost brushing the dirt and grime of a back-alley city street. The confusion didn't make it any easier—Komatsu was still on the edge of panic, and afraid, so _afraid_ it was hard to breath.

Looking up at him through the veil of his hair, just for a second before he gazed down again, Starjun _whined,_ deep in his throat, so unexpected Komatsu couldn't even believe it at first. Starjun slipped a hand up to pull heavy dark hair away from his throat, and his throat was taught with distress, as Starjun tipped his head to the side, exposing the length of his neck, pale enough to almost glow in the moonlight, in-between dark hair and his dark, formal clothes—

“ _Komatsu!_ ” Zebra's voiced roared, a few blocks over, and Komatsu _sobbed_ with relief, starting to shake. Even if there was still a chance he'd die, right here and now, because Starjun had more than enough time to eviscerate him, or simply rip him into pieces, or—

Starjun had half-shifted his form, hair no longer quite as sleek as it changed to fur, ears laid flat back, mouth not quite containing teeth like knives, and he—bent even lower, just for a second, before standing, half-crouched—the knees of his pants damp and dirty, Komatsu thought, feeling crazy—to run, disappearing as the Kings' steps became audible even to Komatsu's ears.

Komatsu stumbled into the Kings' arms, terrified again, and _confused_ , and sick with the thought that he was still a piece in this strange, awful game he didn't understand at all.

* * *

When the tea was steeped, Komatsu poured a cup for himself and a cup for Coco, bringing the tea pot over to the table and then curling up into Coco's lap. For a minute, he just let himself soak in the morning sunshine, eyes closed, feeling Coco's gentle breathing and his warmth, the warmth of his cup of tea.

When Coco bent to kiss his cheek, Komatsu's eyes fluttered open, and he smothered a yawn and then kissed him back.

“Coco? I have some questions. ...About Starjun.”

Coco's arms tightened around him, infinitesimally. “Of course,” he murmured, soft and intimate in Komatsu's ear. Coco's warmth, the sunshine, the smells and sounds of Komatsu's small apartment, the rest of his pack busy in the kitchen—one of the mornings they'd ganged up and kicked Komatsu out before he could start in on breakfast. He knew they were listening in, and that was good, too.

“When he found me, in the alleyway—he didn't attack me, I told you that.”

In the kitchen, someone—Zebra, Komatsu guessed—slammed a pan down harder than was probably necessary, and Komatsu jumped a little, while Coco winced. Sunny started scolding him, always more worried about the condition of Komatsu's counters than anyone else—Komatsu included—was.

“But he—I don't _know._ He knelt, and—exposed his neck? But that doesn't make _any_ sense! He didn't really say anything—and I _know_ he could kill me anyway, kneeling or not. It was just—strange.” Komatsu paused, shaking his head as if to clean out, finally blurting out—all in a rush, because he hadn't been able to forget the strange detail— “He got his pants all dirty kneeling on the edge of a puddle in an _alley!_ The restaurant garbage bins are out there! It's just _weird_ , Coco!”

Coco was staring at him, as shocked as Komatsu had been. But with an edge of suspicious understanding that Komatsu didn't have.

“I was too scared—it was too much to think about it, first thing, but—I wanted to know—is it because I'm your alpha? _Submitting_ to me makes no sense—

“I know,” Coco said, voice aching with fear and fury, arms tightening around Komatsu, and Komatsu hugged him fiercely back.

* * *

Komatsu looked up at the knock at the door.

“Someone to see you, Chef,” the cook said, the newest hire, a little on edge—so it was probably Toriko or Zebra or Sunny, Komatsu thought, a little ruefully. It always took his staff a while to adjust to the Kings, and some of them made it—well, difficult. Not that he'd really have them any other way, Komatsu thought, with a rush of warmth. “He has—ingredients for you?”

“Okay! Show him in,” Komatsu said, with a reassuring smile. In the meantime, he bent his head back to the paperwork he was doing, a chore he never liked, but the restaurant manager was home with her partner and their new baby, throwing herself into motherhood and managing the house while her partner recovered from giving birth.

Komatsu looked up at the sound of footsteps—heavier, more measured than any of his staff—and dropped his pen from fingers suddenly gone numb and clumsy, blood draining from his face.

Starjun was unruffled, serene, as coldly, perfectly inhuman as he'd been in the woods.

As the door swung shut behind him—Komatsu locked in with the wolf—trying to decide if it would be better or worse if he called for the Kings—Starjun seemed to— collapse in on himself. His presence went from suffocating to subdued, and he—dropped to one knee? Setting aside the bag he'd brought, a huge canvas tote—stained pink at the bottom, Komatsu realized, trying to swallow down panic.

“Komatsu,” Starjun said, voice low, and Komatsu shuddered violently, eyes fixed on him, starting to well up with tears but he couldn't close his eyes even long enough to blink them away.

In a gesture that was becoming oddly familiar, Starjun bowed his head and bared his neck and when Komatsu flinched at his movements, he growled, enough to make Komatsu's heart skip a beat—he knelt even further, ears just visible through the curtain of his hair and twitching back, lines of distress visible around his mouth. Despite the growl, his lips were pressed tightly closed, not even a hint of tooth showing.

When Komatsu didn't speak, or move—he was barely able to breath—Starjun's face went bereft and then blank, and he seemed to almost slump in on himself, like he was trying to make himself _small_. Which was so blatantly ridiculous—

Starjun pushed the bag forward, and then shuddered, slinking towards the door—backing up, not turning his back on Komatsu, which was just strange—turning and running as he crossed the threshold. Komatsu could hear the Kings thundering down the steps, pursuing Starjun. Not that they were going to catch him, with the head start he had.

“I'm sorry!” blurted out the chef who'd led Starjun to him—Komatsu's breath caught in his throat, because there was so much that he _couldn't_ explain to his staff, certainly not to all of them. “I didn't realize—I thought he knew you—”

Komatsu tried to imagine his unknowing, ultimately _human_ chef turning away a werewolf who wanted to see Komatsu. A werewolf who'd almost killed Komatsu, come even closer to killing Toriko.

“No!” Komatsu said, the words spilling out of him in a panicked hurry. “No—no, you did exactly the right thing, he—he brought me meat,” he said, looking sideways at the bag, choosing to believe, for now, that it was just beef or something, something not sentient, even if it made no _sense_.

“If you say so, Chef,” his cook said, still looking uneasy. Komatsu tried to smile.

* * *

The bag Starjun had left for him was full of venison. Not local venison, the Kings said, which was—good. If it was local, it would have been on the Kings' territory and a threat, a demand for more of a fight.

Komatsu, surrounded by his bristling Kings, looked at it in bafflement. Then he hesitated, to look up and meet Coco's eyes—Coco looking subtly away, ears flicking back the slightest fraction.

“Coco—what's going on?”

“He's—courting you? Oh! Not _courting_ you, but—he wants you to be his alpha,” Coco said, stumbling a little over the words. Because there really wasn't an equivalent for humans—humans like himself, Komatsu realized. He still couldn't help but shudder at the thought of being _courted_ by the inhuman creature who'd been ready to kill him for no real reason, with no real emotion.

“What?!” Komatsu yelped, even though, really, he'd _known_. In a sick sort of way, it made sense—except for why he was doing it in the first place.

Zebra growled into his back, making the skin prickle oddly at the intrusive vibrations.

“So—he's _submitting_ to me?” Komatsu said, not even needing Coco's affirmative nod as the pieces fell into place. “And—he brought me food—” Komatsu broke off with a shudder. “What do I _do?_ ”

“We'll keep you safe,” Toriko said—like that had ever been in question. Komatsu let himself sink a little deeper into the cradle of Toriko's arms, pressing a soft kiss to the thin flesh of Toriko's throat that made him go boneless with pure pleasure. —Like this, Komatsu could see himself as the alpha of a werewolf pack, for all that he was human and basically helpless when it came to fights. He could see how he _fit_ , how he eased the tension that had built up between the other four, how they gave so selflessly to him and _trusted_ him to do what was right for them.

Starjun—he was a different sort of werewolf. Komatsu couldn't picture Starjun like this, tucked into his bed until the tangle of limbs was spilling off the sides, and he wasn't always sure what the Kings saw in him, but he couldn't at all see a violent, isolated person like Starjun wanting whatever it was. A good meal, care and attention, affection and some of the loyalty they gave him returned—that was what Komatsu could offer the Kings. Trust and love and someone trying to take care of them, even if they didn't really need it, because they _did_ need someone to make the effort. What would Starjun get from that?

“So I should—ignore him? Will he hurt anyone?”

Zebra shrugged, looking furious and sullen, and Sunny pushed himself even further onto Komatsu, like he was trying to act as a living blanket. Komatsu swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, because that hadn't been a _negation_. He knew they had to hear or feel or smell his fear, the change in his pulse and uptick in his breathing.

“It's safer,” Coco said, and—it really had to be, if they weren't going to be a constant presence around him.

Komatsu sighed and then shook his head, forcing the thoughts from his mind. “It's getting late—what do you want for dinner?”

What could he do?

* * *

They only did the Sunday brunch buffet once a month, but Komatsu always looked forward to it—at least in part because it was all dishes that could keep, like you needed for a buffet, and that meant more chances to see the floor in action, watch the people sharing his meals.

The light was warm and bright, flooding the room, and delicious smells filled the air. There was the older couple that showed up without fail, every Sunday, buffet or no, waving at him—Komatsu waved back. There was a family sharing plates, the adults getting dusted with powdered sugar along with the kids, laughing and relaxed, next to a nervous-looking teenage couple, and in the corner—

That was Starjun.

Komatsu's insides turned to lead. He didn't let his smile drop, although knew that anyone who really _knew_ him would be able to tell just how fake it was immediately. His mind was racing, even as he mechanically added a serving of blintzes to a woman's plate.

He could call the Kings. They were right upstairs. And then there might be a werewolf territorial battle in the middle of his restaurant, in broad daylight—the Kings chasing Starjun out into the brightly lit street. It wouldn't be explainable, it would draw attention to his pack, and Komatsu's restaurant right at the center of it. They'd need to _leave_ , and Komatsu knew that the Kings would never force him to leave his restaurant, but that just meant that Komatsu would have to leave for them. Even if there were no transformations, it wouldn't be explainable, and there was no reason to Starjun to make sure the secret was kept—

Mind made up, heart in his throat, Komatsu squared his shoulders and passed his station back to the waiter he'd relieved for a quick break. His rounds of the room brought him—slowly—closer to Starjun.

He didn't go to speak to him—but he knew that he was being watched, could feel the itch of Starjun's eyes along his back. He knew that Starjun knew he was watching _him_ , in quick glimpses—and he knew that Starjun had to hear the thudding of his heart, see the slight tremble of his hands.

Once again, Starjun had eaten a lot for an ordinary person—not a full meal, not even _half_ a full meal, by a werewolf's standards. That Komatsu didn't understand, and it worried him—was he not here to eat? Did he not like the food? It was—stupid, really, to have that even be something to consider—he didn't _care_ if Starjun was well-fed. But he didn't understand anything, nothing about this situation really made sense to him—not Starjun in his restaurant, not Starjun _courting_ him to accept him into his pack—even if intellectually he knew that that was going on, he couldn't really trust Starjun, the way a werewolf maybe would, a real werewolf alpha, confronted with another submissive werewolf.

But Komatsu didn't have even the slightest chance of actually defeating Starjun—and he wasn't a werewolf. And he didn't know why he was leaving a _buffet brunch_ hungry, even if it made it easier in some ways—a single werewolf was still a significant extra burden on the kitchen.

It was strange, to look out at the restaurant floor and see Starjun quietly eating, manners stiff and exacting.

When Komatsu found out that he'd left a two-hundred-percent tip, that was just another edge to the headache.

* * *

Komatsu turned away from the stove, trying to rub exhaustion out of his eyes. He tried not to pull all-nighters anymore, because he _was_ getting older—he felt them more—and because it meant the Kings didn't get much sleep either. ...Which wasn't good for them, and also made Sunny morose, and made Zebra and surprisingly _Coco_ more irritable.

But sometimes, he had to keep on working, experimenting with flavors and techniques to try and make a new recipe _perfect_ , while the rest of the staff cleaned and left, until even the janitor was done and had locked up, Komatsu working in a puddle of light in the otherwise dark kitchens.

When he blinked open his eyes from a smothered yawn, Komatsu saw a huge, furry form—one of the Kings come to get him, he thought, heart lightening—then sinking. He didn't recognize the wolf—werewolf, too huge to be anything else.

But the glossy black fur, the pale underbelly—those he recognized. He thought. Only seen in flashes, half-transformed—the colors, the stiff inscrutability, were something he almost recognized—

“Starjun?” Komatsu managed to squeak out, voice tense.

Starjun whined, and flattened himself against the floor, crawling guiltily forward and then rolling onto his back—belly exposed. Komatsu flattened himself a little bit more against the counter, the edge pressing into his back, nowhere to go.

They stared at each other, or Komatsu stared at Starjun, whose eyes were carefully averted. The silence ticked on. Komatsu couldn't find any questions, not that Starjun could answer without transforming—he didn't know why he was wolf-shaped at all. If that was a threat, or not—what it meant, why _anything_.

From the darkness behind Komatsu, another wolf-shaped figure appeared, overgrown and wild—Komatsu almost screamed, but it was _Toriko_ , shouldering his way in front of Komatsu, covering him almost completely.

Starjun seemed to go even flatter, slowly backing away, head down and ears pushed back so tightly that, Komatsu thought, it had to hurt.

When Toriko looked ready to surge forward, Komatsu didn't even know what it was that made him stop Toriko—maybe the lingering images of his werewolf bleeding out at his feet, hindered by the need to protect him. Or maybe it was that Starjun hadn't attacked him—he just kept on seeking him out with weird guilty submission.

Toriko stilled as soon as he felt Komatsu's hand on his back, although the growl still reverberated through the still air of the restaurant. Komatsu trusted him—implicitly, explicitly—to follow his lead in this, even though Komatsu was dizzy with panic, and in far over his head, out of his depth—he didn't really _get_ werewolf instincts, when they differed too much from his own.

It was also easier to not be terrified of Starjun—easier not to hate him—with the protective bulk of Toriko warm against his side. It also made it that much harder not to laugh, more than half hysterical, when Starjun slowly crawled forward again, head down, like an oversized—deadly, violent, supernatural—dog, a _house pet_ , slowly approaching them. Komatsu knew that they both could hear the spike in his breathing. Toriko was a wall between him and the other werewolf, his hackles bristling and his eyes gleaming bright in the half-light, teeth bared, growl redoubling.

Carefully, Starjun lifted his head to lick softly at Toriko's chin, apparently ignoring the obvious threat of his body language—and Toriko didn't attack, even if he didn't back down.

When Starjun turned questioning eyes to Komatsu, even the mental image of him as an overgrown puppy didn't help at all. Komatsu flinched back, and Starjun whined again, apologetically, and finally turned tail and fled. Komatsu let himself collapse against the warm fur of Toriko's side, shaking and trying to get his breathing back under control, trying not to hyperventilate, not trying at all to stem the flow of tears even if it made Toriko's fur stick wetly to his face.

“Thank you, Toriko,” Komatsu told him, squeezing him close.

He didn't know what to make of this.

* * *

Komatsu jumped as there was a sudden loud crash from the doorway behind him—a problem, because he was on the very top rung of a ladder, reaching for a heavy box of root vegetables in the dim cool storeroom of the restaurant. He was falling—

His world tilted as a warm—hot—body appeared under him, in a sideways leap, sending them both into an inhumanly smooth landing. The world spun, and Komatsu tried to reorient himself, grasping at the collar of a shirt, fingers tangled up in a spill of hair—there was one of his staff members by the door, a pile of broken plates on the ground by her feet, looking horrified—who was holding him?

“Starjun?” Komatsu squeaked, and—yes, that was his jaw, his heavy eyebrows, even if his gaze was downcast, face as iron-still as it always seemed to be (except when it _wasn't_ —when Starjun was mocking him, when he was snarling at Toriko) and as unruffled. Starjun flinched, very slightly, like he wanted to drop Komatsu—but he didn't. Didn't let go. He also didn't, Komatsu realized with a rush of relief, do anything too obviously inhuman, something Komatsu couldn't explain away—something that might implicate the Kings.

“Chef?” his waiter blurted.

“It's fine,” Komatsu said, trying to smile around his fear and lingering adrenaline—he was still being _held_ , bridal-style, and Starjun was making a low, soft sound of distress, so quietly it just barely reached Komatsu's ears.

“If you—Of course, chef!” she said, turning for the door—it closed behind her.

In a rustle of movement, Starjun set him on his feet so quickly that Komatsu staggered, not expecting it, and knelt at his feet—still human, still so much _bigger_ than Komatsu.

“Why are you _here?_ ” Komatsu had to ask, aghast.

When Starjun turned to look at him, he was—devastated, was Komatsu's first thought. His mouth just barely parted, eyes a little too wide, face indefinably younger, somehow _lost_ , instead of assured marble superiority.

“I failed,” Starjun said, voice serious and just faintly harsh with not-quite-controlled emotion.

“This is a storeroom! It's—why are you in my restaurant storeroom in the middle of the day?” Komatsu asked, still baffled, increasingly so— “Did you even know I would be down here? Why—”

Starjun blinked at him, looking suddenly baffled.

“Failed _what?_ I—thank you for catching me! But—don't you get cold in here?”

“No,” Starjun said, and he turned his head away at that, once more unnaturally submissive—the sudden change irked Komatsu, somehow, a sudden hint of discomfort. He held his hand up, as if that meant something—

When Komatsu didn't react, Starjun reached out to brush Komatsu's hand—flinching away too when Komatsu flinched from his touch. But his hand was _hot_ , his body temperature unnaturally high, even for a werewolf.

“It's close but out of the way,” Starjun said, quietly.

Komatsu was fairly certain that the conversation wouldn't make any more sense even if he was a werewolf.

“So you—stay here? In my _restaurant?_ ”

Starjun whined, openly this time, the same distressed noise as an upset dog—or a wolf, suddenly going flat into the deepest possible bow, shoulders sunk low, kneeling on the floor, all that long hair trailing in the dust. Komatsu stared at him, aghast.

“I should have—you hadn't chased me out of your territory,” Starjun said, thickly. “I... Misunderstood. I apologize. I'm sorry—”

_Sorry_. The word caught Komatsu's attention, even in the middle of this chaotic, unpredictable conversation.

“If I told you to leave, you'd leave?” Komatsu said—he had to ask.

Starjun shivered—distressed enough to half-shift, Komatsu could see his ears go flat—and nodded, before looking up, face deep. “As you tell me to,” he said. That grief was back in his eyes.

He backed up again, still on his hands and knees, before he turned to go. Komatsu stared after him for one heartbeat, two—

“No—Starjun!”

Starjun jerked to a halt, suddenly frozen.

“It's okay,” Komatsu said, feeling—a little wild, not sure _why_ he was stopping this monster from leaving his life forever. “I wasn't—it wasn't—I'm not a _werewolf_ , you—you know that, you have to, but it means that I don't think about _territory_ , it's not that—you didn't sleep here, did you?”

Starjun hesitated, shoulders tight, his back still to Komatsu—he sunk to his knees again, curling in on himself just so. “No,” he said, solemnly. “...the woods. Still your territory.”

“I don't think about it like that! I'm just—afraid of you.”

Starjun turned to stare at his feet, nodding, just once, too tight and too controlled.

“Don't you have somewhere else to go? Your own pack—”

Starjun shook his head, facing going hard and grieved again, what Komatsu could see of it downturned. “Not anymore. I'm unaligned,” he said, simply, looking at his hands. The way—mostly—that the Kings had been, in effect if not in technicality. “I'll leave—”

“You don't have anywhere to go! It's—you can stay. I won't chase you away.”

When Starjun stood in a fluid rush, suddenly so much _closer_ to him, Komatsu still couldn't stop his flinch back, head smacking into the shelves behind him, still terrified of this wild stranger. (Starjun, Toriko's blood dripping from his hands.)

Starjun stopped like he'd been frozen solid, before slowly—agonizingly slowly—lowering himself again. For just a second, Komatsu caught a twist of his lips, nothing like a smile, sad and unamused and heavy with self-recrimination. Resignation.

Starjun was looking up at him, half unearthly composure—handsome, serene, face clean of any hints of emotion—and half _werewolf_ , Komatsu couldn't pretend that he was a dog, that he was a wolf, even—it was all human intellect, _werewolf_ intellect, behind his eyes. But there was—a wary need for acceptance. Less a dog or a wolf than an alley cat, desperate enough to try for something even though it knew it would end badly, again.

His eyes were still pulled politely away from Komatsu's, gaze lowered. Neck on display—if Komatsu were another werewolf, he could slash open his jugular if he wanted, bite deep into the fragile skin of the belly. But there was nothing Komatsu could do to him. All the shows of submission in the world wouldn't do a thing to change the fact that he could kill Komatsu without needing to try. It would just take a thought.

Working on something more ephemeral than a whim, Komatsu held out his hand, shaking but not drawn back as, slowly, Starjun turned to look at it, like he was starving and Komatsu held a feast.

Komatsu braced himself as Starjun slowly shuffled forward—somehow still composed and deadly, even walking on his still-human knees—to press his head to Komatsu's hand, his skin so warm, his breath warmer, and then—he reached out to lick Komatsu's hand, and his tongue was _hot_.

It wasn't like a dog's kiss, but there was nothing sexual about it, the way it would be with a person—just intimacy. Strange, Komatsu thought, squeezing down a bubble of hysteria, at having this man—this _werewolf_ —licking at his hand. Still restrained, but something easing in the tight muscles of his face, his forehead. Before he finally withdrew.

When someone knocked on the door, Komatsu jumped and Starjun straightened in a rush, so he was a tall, impassive, _imposing_ figure again, instead of the person whose tongue had swiped a line of heat over the back of Komatsu's fingers, paying rapt attention. He straightened his hair—still dusty at the ends, Komatsu needed to give the storeroom a thorough cleaning sometime soon, top to bottom—and swept out of the room, with a single nod to Komatsu, leaving him poleaxed and wide-eyed in his wake.

“Chef Komatsu?” the intruder asked, a little hesitant, and Komatsu started—he was still at work, he had to get back to the kitchens. It didn't make much sense, somehow—Starjun and the restaurant facets of the same world, taking up the same time. He didn't blend seamlessly into Komatsu's life, the way the Kings did. The way the Kings hadn't, at first.

“Coming,” Komatsu said, forcing himself to sound cheerful—trying to quiet his heart, trying to put aside everything that had happened, until later.

* * *

“You stuck close by last night,” Komatsu said suddenly, turning to look at the Kings surrounding him in an exhausted post-full-moon pile, still touchy and affectionate after a night spent as wolves—with each other, not just Komatsu, who they always seemed to have an easier time being close to. It was an indirect question.

“Starjun,” Zebra growled, apparently disgusted—but they hadn't tracked down Starjun to rip him apart the night before, and it would have been _easy_ for the four of them, working together. A very traditional way to settle things, killing a trespassing werewolf on the full moon. Even while they were protecting Komatsu—there was no way for a single werewolf to dodge an enraged pack, even a small pack.

“He stayed far away,” Coco added, reaching out to run his hand down Komatsu's cheek, the sort of easy, casual touch he almost never displayed, but—for now—a little bit more comfortable in his own body, after a night of escape. “He's denned down on the far side of the woods—he was closer than that, but he kept a good distance.”

“Okay,” Komatsu said, nodding, relaxing. He'd worried—about Starjun trying to approach him again, worried more about Starjun's temper and instincts unfettered, wild with the full moon. The Kings he trusted with every cell of his body—but Starjun had almost killed him with no reason, with intent, on an ordinary day with an ordinary moon. “That's—okay. I know you'll keep me safe,” he added, so the Kings would—hopefully—hear, just how much he trusted them. Just how much he _knew_ them, knew they'd protect him, the way he'd protect them—as well as they could, to their absolute limits and past them.

“I fucking wish he'd tried something,” Zebra snarled, and Komatsu had to laugh, squirming a little on Toriko's broad chest until he could reach out an arm to pat Zebra's shoulder, laughing harder when Zebra turned to scowl—and lick his hand.

Who could blame him when that meant that he had to try to lick Zebra back? It ended in the five of them wrestling again, play-wrestling, gentler than the night before, just another excuse to keep on touching each other, hand to leg and cheek to chest and hip to foot.

* * *

When Starjun was there for the next breakfast brunch, Komatsu was less surprised. The Kings were there too, apparently ignoring the other werewolf, the four of them rowdy, the way they always were; trying to restrain themselves, the way they did when they ate in the restaurant when it was shared with other patrons—they'd eaten breakfast already, to dull the edges of their appetites.

When Komatsu slowly made his way over to Starjun's table, the Kings did pay attention, tracking him with their eyes, focused and intent.

_Starjun_ seemed surprised to see Komatsu for some reason. Komatsu hid a wince, seeing Starjun's immediate instinct—to tilt his head, bare his throat—checked, wariness in his eyes.

“Starjun!” Komatsu said, managing something like a real smile—not really sure how or why, but happy he could anyway. “Can I get you anything else to eat?”

“No thank you,” Starjun said, voice ruthlessly controlled, mouth suddenly tight and thin as he looked down at his half-finished meal, still far too small for a werewolf, even a werewolf that had already eaten.

“Okay,” Komatsu said, surprised, still _confused,_ turning to leave again. The next time he glanced back at Starjun's corner table, it had been deserted by the werewolf, much faster than Komatsu had expected. He didn't know what _that_ meant.

-End Chapter 2-


	3. Inclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! Expect another werewolf fic in the near-ish future, because I love this AU more than I should.

It was too familiar by now, but Komatsu still couldn't stop jumping each time Starjun seemed to appear out of nowhere, surprising him in the otherwise empty kitchen.

He still couldn't stop his yelp as he turned around from the stove he was cooking on to find Starjun, watching him silent and intense. He regretted it almost immediately—Starjun flinched back minutely, and his expression shuttered, and Komatsu knew he was probably imagining the moment of unsurprised disappointment in the werewolf's eyes, but what if he _wasn't?_

“Chef Komatsu,” Starjun said, his voice light and even, uninflected, deep and cultured—and too quiet. Komatsu could hear him just fine, but it didn't sound like it should be _natural_ to him. Like he'd be louder but he was—Komatsu didn't know. Hurting. Afraid of hurting Komatsu. Despite everything that had changed.

And hadn't changed.

An oversized bag of meat was placed very carefully on the table—Komatsu could see the wrapped packages, each one labeled in unfussy but exacting penmanship, identifying the type of meat, boar and venison and buffalo, and the cut—followed by another one, smaller and less full, a mystery—Komatsu couldn't see what was in it.

“Starjun,” Komatsu said in return, belatedly, voice a little tight and wavering. He wished that Starjun would stop surprising him—it was harder to remember not to be afraid of Starjun when he appeared out of nowhere, ambushing Komatsu when he was alone. The sudden surge of adrenaline overwhelmed everything that had changed.

Starjun almost whimpered, a thin unhappy noise in his throat, too familiar by now—Starjun didn't quite sink to his knees, although that was also too familiar, but curled tightly in on himself, like he was trying to make himself smaller, or like he was trying to disappear.

He was glancing sideways at Komatsu through the curtain of his hair. Was that—longing, in his eyes? Komatsu shivered.

Just like that, the spell was broken. Looking hunted, Starjun shifted, bowed deeply—too deeply—and sped for the door, his usual air of casual grace less convincing as he _hurried_ , ears stiff in a way that made Komatsu think that they'd be laid back if he wasn't so controlled.

The second bag was full of wild fruits and vegetables, all in exquisite condition, from the delicate leaves of wild garlic to a full two pints of sunset-colored berries so perfectly ripe it was almost like they were glowing.

* * *

Komatsu noticed the change in his Kings almost immediately, even though he was distracted by his cooking, and by Toriko trying to filch bites of half-prepared food, shamelessly using it as an excuse to wrap himself around Komatsu—Sunny jumping into the fray to 'defend' Komatsu, Komatsu laughing at their antics.

It was Zebra who seemed to react first, stiffening as his growl started to echo through the kitchen, picked up by the others, one by one, quiet enough to be nothing more than a warning.

“Zebra?” Komatsu had to ask, breathless, not sure if the others knew what it was yet—Zebra was best at distance, and the others would follow his lead.

“ _Starjun,_ ” Zebra spat, and Komatsu shivered, even though it didn't mean what it might once have.

They were all staring with at the kitchen door as it slowly slid open, Starjun cool and unruffled on the other side, clearly not surprised to find himself watched by a quartet of werewolves ranging from wary but neutral (that was Toriko) to silently furious (Zebra). But still, even though Starjun had no problem meeting the Kings' eyes in silent challenge, a refusal to back down, his ears were back, and he was carefully avoiding Komatsu's gaze.

He was carrying another canvas tote bag—Komatsu was struck by the image of Starjun going shopping for _reusable bags_ , all of that incredible height and physical ability and menace and _hair_ , even when he was entirely human-shaped, and was struck by the urge to laugh, barely suppressed. It was only half hysteria.

“This is for you,” Starjun said into the silence, voice smooth and unhurried, annunciation crisp. “Komatsu,” he added—and there, his voice was starting to slide into longing, the worried whimper of a lonely wolf. Komatsu bit back another wince, because—it wasn't quite right. Starjun being so nervous.

Even if he kept on scaring Komatsu. With the Kings, at least he'd gotten a warning—otherwise, it would have just been the door opening, unexpected. Again. Komatsu shivered.

“Starjun,” Komatsu began, and Starjun turned to look at him,so openly and transparently _longing_ before he dropped his gaze and shuttered his expression that it made something in Komatsu ache sympathetically.

Tense and drawn, Starjun still seemed huddled in on himself—then suddenly, in a flash, he was right in front of Komatsu, drawing up short as Sunny and Zebra were in his way, wearing sharp claws and sharper teeth, growling low and menacing. Komatsu reacted only belatedly—flinching back, with nowhere to go, grabbing desperately for Toriko's hand.

Starjun's face went blank with surprise, then just blank and flat. He backed up three steps, very deliberately, very slowly. He set the bag he was still holding down gently, then turned on his heel and left, gone in a split second—breaking into a run even before he reached the door out of the kitchen.

“Wait!” Komatsu yelled, but it didn't even slow Starjun's stride. He had no chance of catching him— No idea if he could still hear Komatsu. If he'd kept running, or stopped, no idea how good his hearing was. “Starjun! Starjun—just please knock, you _startle_ me! I'm—afraid—but not just afraid! So—”

Komatsu fell silent, Sunny whining sympathetically—the tension was broken when Toriko nosed at Komatsu's ear, making him jump and startle at the cold wet touch—followed up with him licking enthusiastically at his ear, tail thumping against the counter as he wrapped Komatsu up in his arms, the tension slowly ebbing away.

Komatsu was the only one surprised when someone knocked on the door, firmly and without hesitation. Looking over at the Kings—all of them with at least some wolflike characteristics, and unconcerned about it—Komatsu was sure he knew who it was. He took a deep breath.

“Come in!”

“I can't b'lieve you forgot Komatsu was human _again_ ,” Sunny said smugly, managing to look down his nose at Starjun even though the other werewolf was taller than him. It broke the thick tension in the air some.

Zebra snorted derisively, which made Sunny sneer at him. “Like _you_ did, Zeb'ra.” Coco managed to stifle his laugh into nothing more than a small smile, but Toriko didn't even try, laughing openly.

“True—you did try to feed Komatsu raw deer liver,” Coco said, tone friendly and distracted even though his eyes were glittering and sharp, watching Starjun like a hawk. “Of course, I think Toriko was the worst—”

Komatsu had to laugh. “It's true, Toriko! Remember that one time you gave me a concussion?”

“You _what?_ ” Zebra snapped, incensed, and Toriko pushed at him—Zebra pushed back—Komatsu shot a glance at Coco, who pushed them both away from the stove, letting Komatsu get back to his food, hurrying to catch up to dishes hastily abandoned. Nothing had been ruined yet, at least—

When he looked up again, his Kings were still close, a little too watchful, a protective line between him and Starjun—but they were also more relaxed than he would have expected. It _was_ hard, though, to be afraid of Starjun, even for Komatsu—when his Kings were there, pushing playfully at each other, at Komatsu, loud and rambunctious and loving, so much _unlike_ the way they'd been once upon a time—when he'd met them—that it made his heart clench almost painfully, full to bursting and then some. To have them there with him, have them there _for_ him, eating a meal he'd cooked for them, full and happy and _together_.

Starjun was watching them with a look of terrible distance, as quiet as he always seemed to be, and subdued—diminished, part of Komatsu thought, and while it was better compared to the—monster that he'd been, cold as ice and as capable of sympathy as a wildfire, and _vicious_ —it was so much better than that, but Komatsu didn't think that it was right, either. It felt wrong, not as definably as the Kings felt _right_ , but—similar, maybe. Komatsu wondered that if Starjun relaxed at all, if he started taking up space, if he would be afraid of him again—because of what he'd done, who he was. Komatsu had been a little afraid of Zebra, at first—Zebra always pushed—but not really _afraid,_ because Toriko had introduced them—because Zebra was Toriko's pack-brother and so Komatsu wanted to like him, and because Toriko would never, _ever,_ knowingly endanger Komatsu.

Starjun only picked at his meal, by werewolf standards, and that bothered Komatsu too.

* * *

It was one of the rare evenings where Komatsu had the kitchen all to himself—the full Hotel Gourmet kitchen, the restaurant closed for the night, the Kings off hunting. Komatsu had stayed behind to work on new recipes, always trying to keep up with the demands of running a restaurant, of making it not only _good_ but _exceptional_. Food was only part of it, but it was a large part, an important part, and Komatsu did his best.

“Come in!” he called over his shoulder at the knock on the door—no idea who it was, but vaguely guessing a staff member who'd left something behind, his restaurant manager coming to him with questions.

Half-craning his head, his hand still shaking sesame seeds in a dry pan, toasting them over the seeds, Komatsu stared as Starjun stepped very carefully into the room.

Komatsu put his pan aside, the seeds golden brown, and went to wash his hands, head down, patting them dry. Cleanliness was _important_ in a restaurant. He was putting off talking to Starjun.

Because he knew that Starjun was in the room—because he was starting to know Starjun—he didn't shriek when he turned around and Starjun was suddenly _right there_ , all the way across the room, soundlessly, while Komatsu's head had been turned. “Starjun,” he said, instead, just barely not a question. “Are you hungry?” he added, and even though it was phrased like a question, it really wasn't—he was already shifting ingredients around, switching gears from planning and experimentation to producing enough food for a single—very hungry—guest.

Or at least, he hoped hungry. Even if that was ridiculous—hoping that the werewolf visiting was _hungry_ , the werewolf that had almost killed him.

“I'm fine,” Starjun said, staring fixedly at the steak Komatsu was cooking. Komatsu winced, and he knew Starjun caught it—his eyes flicking over to him and then away, his ears going back another minute fraction of an inch. Komatsu was grateful for that, at least—that Starjun usually had ears or a tail that were more expressive, easier to read even to Komatsu, than his face.

Komatsu clenched his fists, shoulders tight, heat beating in his throat, nails biting into his palms, sweaty and nervous. “Starjun—do you _like_ —do you like my cooking? Because you never eat enough! I—I know if you're like the Kings, then, you're not eating enough, you _can't_ eat enough, I—try, I know my meat's not as fresh as something you killed, but—is there something I can change? Can I do better? I want to cook a meal you'd enjoy!”

Starjun stared at him, then whimpered, and through the lingering haze of fear—Komatsu was panting, a little shaky—Komatsu thought, very clearly, _oh. Back to this_.

Starjun shifted fully, sliding into wolf-shape—huge, all shadow-and-moonlight fur, gleaming teeth and heavy claws clicking on the linoleum. He had a predator's eyes, but that wasn't any different from when he was human-shaped. Komatsu was going to need to find him clothes—it would need to be from the Kings, and the motley collection of things that had drifted into his closet and drawers—if Starjun wanted to shift back to human before he left. Otherwise he'd have to smuggle an oversized wolf out the back door.

He braced himself, bolstered by unending stubborn courage as much as worry, a little bit of wounded pride. And because—things _were_ different now, between him and Starjun. He wouldn't try to get away—

Starjun whimpered once, a sad little pitiful noise, tail tucked between his legs and ears flat, the picture of a guilty-sad dog, and he crept closer, staying low to the ground—lower than Komatsu, very carefully edging closer, then closer, before sinking even lower, until he could duck his head enough to push it under Komatsu's hand, pressing into his loosely-curled fingers.

When Komatsu didn't say anything, didn't react, Starjun shuffled even closer—ridiculous, awkward while trying to crawl in wolf-shape—and the heat of him was like a furnace, even more than with the Kings—he ran hot, and it was radiating out even through the thick layer of his pelt. His nose was hot, too, where he bumped it into Komatsu's neck, hot but wet, probably healthy for Starjun—another idiosyncrasy, like the differences between the Kings. They _were_ supernatural—not bound by wolf or human biology.

Hesitantly, Komatsu curled his arms around Starjun, feeling the low rumble of his voice vibrating through his throat, against Komatsu's shoulder. Then Starjun craned his head around, until he could very carefully lick at Komatsu's chin, ears still flat and eyes downright mournful.

“Um, Starjun?” Komatsu said after a moment, fingers automatically scratching soothingly at the base of Starjun's skull when he whimpered again, apparently genuinely distressed even though Komatsu didn't know _why_. “I really have no idea what's going on.” And Starjun couldn't explain much to Komatsu when he was wolf-shaped.

With a shiver, Komatsu was suddenly holding an armful of oversized naked man, still just as hot to the touch but no longer covered in thick fur. Komatsu yelped, but his arms tightened before Starjun could yank himself away. “No, no, it's alright! I—thank you, now we can talk—?”

“I don't want to challenge you,” Starjun said, very calmly—except that he was aching with tension. “I don't—I won't take your food, I know you're human, and I don't want to challenge you even though I know I could beat you, kill you—”

It was terrifying to hear him say that, inches from Komatsu's throat when he'd already come so close to killing him. But the desperate _want_ in Starjun's voice was enough to make him hold still.

“You're a good alpha. You care. I know I can't be forgiven, but I wanted—I want to make things right. I want to show you I won't _fail you_ ever again.”

Starjun drew a shuddering open-mouthed breath, against Komatsu's shoulder, breath like a trickle of smoke, and Komatsu found himself automatically rubbing soothingly at Starjun's scalp, pushing through that ridiculous long cascade of inky black hair instead of a wolf's two-layer coat of fur. It still felt almost normal, even with Starjun pressed tight against him. And naked.

“I won't—ask too much,” Starjun said, tightly. “I'll serve you in whatever way you need—”

“I don't want you to serve me,” Komatsu said, too quickly.

The silence was heavy.

“Of course,” Starjun said, bleakly. He made to drop his arms, but Komatsu hung on, all the determination and a chef's muscles, not enough to stop a werewolf but enough to make Starjun check himself.

“Not—not like that! I said—I don't _understand_ werewolves, Starjun! I didn't know why you kept on showing up—it was like a nightmare, that—when we were in the woods, that first time—and before that, and then it was like the nightmare came back. And I was scared. But—Starjun, I'm not a _werewolf_ , I don't know what it means when you—do this! I can try to understand, and adjust, but—you never apologized.”

“I'm sorry, Komatsu,” Starjun said, pressing even tighter against Komatsu, just on the edge of painful. Komatsu had no idea what he was apologizing for—which particular thing, what he'd done, or that he hadn't apologized, or that Komatsu wouldn't ever _understand_ the way another werewolf would.

“I'm not much of an alpha, Starjun. I—I like to cook for my Kings. For my pack. For everyone, really—I want you to eat when I cook for you! You need to eat more than me, anyway—a lot more—and meals are better shared, and—it's not like it was you taking food from me, I was _giving_ it to you.”

Starjun shuddered.

In the ticking silence that followed, something fell into place for Komatsu, pieces slotting together.

“Starjun? I can't—just say that you're a part of my pack, because it doesn't work like that for me. I _know_ the Kings. But I'd like to cook dinner for you, and for you to eat as much as you want, as much as I cook—it's alright. You knocked this time. You're trying?”

“Trying isn't enough,” Starjun said, the tension in his voice singing like a bow string.

“It is,” Komatsu said, and that was the thing—it really _was_ , like this. Starjun trying. “Let me cook you dinner. You do— _do_ you like my cooking?”

“Yes!” Starjun snarled, a sudden spark of fire that made Komatsu startle just a bit, but that was—okay. It felt more like Komatsu thought Starjun was supposed to feel. ...It was awful, to think of Starjun cowering out of fear that he couldn't let Komatsu know he was _sorry,_ that he wanted—not even acceptance, but to be allowed to beg. Because he thought he deserved nothing more.

Werewolves were strange, and Starjun was even less socialized and even wilder than the Kings had been—and just as lonely and sad, even though _his_ pack hadn't been halfway to defunct. That made something angry spark in Komatsu's chest, thinking about it.

“Oh good!” Komatsu said, letting himself lean against Starjun for a moment, before straightening, turning back to the stove. “—that's a relief. What are your favorite things to eat?”

Starjun stared at him blankly, and Komatsu sighed—he had yet to get Toriko, Zebra and Coco to admit to any preferences yet, either.

Starjun stepped a little ways away, still almost fully human—a lot less imposing than he was as a wolf, but also a lot _more_ imposing, without any clothes. “Just let me know if you like anything in particular?” Komatsu said.

“It's not necessary,” Starjun began, stiffly, but Komtsu shook his head vehemently, interrupting him.

“If I'm cooking for you, I want it to be for _you_ —things for you to eat!” Despite his words, Komatsu was plating up some of his more successful experiments from the evening, because he knew that there wasn't much worry of him cooking too much. When he turned around again, Starjun was watching him with something glinting in his eyes, something Komatsu couldn't even guess at, so he stopped, turning to look Starjun in the eyes—needing to, even though he knew it was a challenge to a werewolf, if they chose to take it that way—and asked. “Starjun?”

He just shook his head, apparently—baffled, but that was too silly a word. He looked so confused that he was _lost_ , like a carpet had been yanked out from underneath his feet.

“Here,” Komatsu said, putting down a plate of food—and, yes, now that Komatsu was watching, he could see Starjun glance at it sidelong, hunger in his eyes. And then Komatsu—very carefully—put a hand on Starjun's arm, fingers pressing just hard enough against soft, hot skin to anchor both Komatsu and the werewolf, with no hint of threat. Not that Komatsu's small, calloused fingers—the nails dull, kept short for cleanliness in the kitchen—could have much threat to them anyway. Certainly not when Komatsu wasn't holding a knife—and that wouldn't make much of a difference at all. Even though Starjun was holding still, like Komatsu's gentle grasp was an immovable, unshakeable constant in his world—and Komatsu didn't _want_ to think about his werewolves—his Kings, or even Starjun—holding just as still while Komatsu cut into them, still unwilling to fight back. No.

Starjun sighed, eyes slipping shut—his eyelashes were so long, casting delicate shadows against his cheeks. He was leaning forward, just a little, hands clenched tight, like he wanted to cling, or—throw himself under Komatsu's hands—something.

He always seemed to be holding himself back, curling in on himself, a hidden tangle of the briefest glimpses of emotion, motives swallowed by an unspeaking mouth, tight control and everything pulled tight enough to strangle, pressed into his skin. Komatsu knew he didn't know Starjun. He wondered if _anyone_ did.

He knew his old pack leader didn't. Starjun had seen Komatsu, human and weak and ready to die for Toriko, and wanted it bad enough for him to leave behind _everything_ , to beg for just a taste of it from Komatsu, giving up all the warmth and comfort and certainty and support of pack for an on-the-edge existence in the fringes of Komatsu's pack's territory.

“Starjun,” Komatsu said, voice shaking a little with fear, again—because it had been different with each of his Kings. Starjun looked up at the fear, something wild in the back of his eyes, and he whined, leaning in to press his mouth, tight-lipped and closed, against Komatsu's chin in what was nothing like a kiss.

Komatsu slid a hand into Starjun's hair, and the way he started would have almost been comical. If it wasn't for the edge of tragedy. If it wasn't—

Everything that it _was,_ everything that had unmistakeably gone wrong. From the very beginning. It was just... different, now.

“Starjun, it's _okay._ You don't—I won't push you away without good reason. I won't just make you leave—you can eat, and say whatever you like! You can—you can come to the restaurant, or I'll cook for you, you can visit me—it's all _fine_. I don't want you—you don't have to do anything you don't want to. You don't have to—to _court me_ , because I won't just push you away!”

“I want you,” Starjun said—enough to make Komatsu blush—even though he knew enough about werewolves and about Starjun to know that he really didn't mean _sexually_. At least, not necessarily. “I want—whatever you'll give me,” he said. Nothing Komatsu didn't already know. “I know you're afraid of me.” His voice—deep, even, still the same voice as the one that the werewolf who'd attacked him had used—had faded into nothing more than a whisper, shot through with grief.

“Knocking really helps,” Komatsu said, honestly meaning it. “You don't have to—submit or, or _beg_ for anything—I just want you comfortable! I don't know how. ...it seems like I don't know _you_ , like you're trying to be careful or, or something—I just don't want you afraid anymore! Of—me, I know it's ridiculous, but you don't have to be afraid that I'll _banish_ or force you away—as long as you want to be here and as long as you're trying—”

Starjun knelt again, looking up at Komatsu—but meeting his eyes. Hesitantly, but—Komatsu could see the fire in him, and it was a comfort, even though he hadn't expected it to be. “If I want to?” he asked.

“Eh?!”

“If I want to submit myself to you,” Starjun said, like he was stating an easy, simple fact. “You _deserve_ my submission. You're a better alpha than any I've ever known, or known of. You've earned the loyalty of the Kings twice over. Even as an outsider, you would cook for me; you haven't had me killed or chased away, despite—what I did to you.” His voice only wavered at the very end, a moment of grief or something more complicated making the words harsh, harsher than Komatsu had expected.

Komatsu paused—his first thought an embarrassed negation, but that chased away by thoughts of Sunny licking his face, Coco always so careful to defer to Komatsu especially when his staff were watching, Zebra bringing him kills he hadn't eaten off of at _all,_ Toriko's boneless pleasure when Komatsu kissed or petted his throat. Trust.

“Yes,” Komatsu said, blushing despite himself, burying his face in his hands. “I mean—I understand. But you don't _have_ to. And I'm not a werewolf! So things like—you really don't have to leave food uneaten, I just don't need to eat nearly as much as you do. Starjun, please eat!” he added, pushing another few plates onto the counter.

Starjun blinked in surprise, and then slowly rose, settling himself at the counter. Komatsu was glad Starjun seemed to not get cold, a side effect of his high body temperature maybe—because otherwise it would have been chilly, with nothing but his hair for cover.

“Thank you,” Komatsu added, smiling genuinely and without complications—just the slightest bit of lingering shakiness—for the first time that evening.

Starjun looked at him in obvious confusion and surprise. “Thank _you,_ ” he said, looking a little conflicted at the words, tone just slightly stiff. Maybe slightly offended, that Komatsu was thanking _him_.

“You're welcome?” Komatsu said again, trying it—still sounding a little sheepish. He had to laugh when Starjun frowned, minutely. It set off a little surge of fear, a momentary rush of adrenaline, but it was still—good, because he could see how this was _Starjun,_ a little less desperate to win Komatsu's approval. Which made it easier to for Komatsu to relax around him.

Even if he knew that Starjun hadn't missed the minute flinch, the catch in his breathing when Starjun frowned at him. And that had Starjun's face lowered again, concentrating on his meals. It was—a little upsetting. But for the first time, Komatsu could see Starjun, and how this might work, piece by piece, the two of them fitting together.

It was a lot quieter than it ever was when Komatsu was cooking for the Kings—just the quiet sounds of silverware against ceramic, and Komatsu's knife, pots being moved on and off burners, the sizzle of things being cooked.

“Here,” Starjun said softly, but his voice was still loud in the shadowy silence. Komatsu jumped a little, but Starjun's hand barely shifted, drawing back just the slightest bit. He had a piece of meat on it, a perfect tender square—and sized for Komatsu's mouth, not Starjun's.

“I've already tried it,” Komatsu said, a little bit confused, and Starjun's expression went a little bit cloudier, firmer. The chef swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“It's late, you've been cooking for a long time, and you should eat,” Starjun said, direct and logical eyes narrowing just a bit. His voice was confident, and half pleading, half demanding. “If you're not cooking for yourself—”

“...Thank you,” Komatsu said, sheepishly, and he reached over to take the tidbit.

Starjun sighed, all peaceful bone-deep contentment, and Komatsu flushed again.

“Here! If you're going to insist on sharing—try this, please? I think it needs more paprika—”

When Komatsu held out the tasting spoon with a generous sample on it, Starjun didn't even bother trying to take it from his hands, just leaning in to close his mouth around it, eyes closed and an almost silly smile on his face. ...Komatsu thought. But he never would have been able to guess that that was what the expression was, even if anyone had told him, before.

“Delicious,” Starjun almost purred, and Komatsu made a face, flapping his hands at him.

“No, not you too! It helps if you give me _advice_ —”

“Thank you,” Starjun said again, voice softer, and because he was staring at Komatsu's hands again, Komatsu let himself reach out and squeeze one of the werewolf's hands, his own volition. It felt right.

* * *

Komatsu was halfway up the stairs to his apartment when he noticed the first splashes of blood—still drying, so not brand-new but still fresh—and by the time he saw the puddle in front of his front door, he was in full-on panic mode.

Starjun was sprawled out on the floor, across from the door—it had to be his blood, he was covered in still-healing injuries, and Komatsu froze. For a werewolf to still be so badly injured, the wounds must have been indescribably horrific—

“Komatsu?” Starjun asked, squinting at the door, and Komatsu stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. He almost ran to Starjun's side, but—no, no, injured still-half-strange werewolf. Komatsu approached more carefully.

“Starjun,” he said softly, kneeling next to him—blood soaking into his chef's whites. It left him almost nauseous, the way butchering an animal never had. “Starjun—what _happened?_ Are you—will you be okay?”

Starjun shrugged, or half-shrugged, then winced, wheezing with pain, his claws—still on mostly-human fingers but razor sharp, and strong—digging into the already-shredded carpet. Very very carefully, Komatsu touched his fingers against a whole patch of skin on Starjun's arm, not trusting himself to touch anywhere else, afraid of aggravating wounds.

“There was an intruder,” Starjun said. “Not my—my old pack,” he added, faltering just a second, gaze twitching up at Komatsu for just a moment. “But from Joa's pack—she attacked. The Kings are finishing her off.”

“What can I do to help?” Komatsu said, up to speed enough—the rest he could hear later. It wasn't his Kings who'd been fighting Starjun, they were only ignoring his injuries because they needed to hunt down the threat—

“I'll live,” Starjun said, like that made a difference.

“Starjun,” Komatsu said, very gently, reaching up to comb hair out of Starjun's eyes with his fingers, carefully pulling it away from where it had stuck to his skin, caught in drying blood. “I want to do help. Can I—would it help to bandage the wounds?”

Very carefully, Starjun looked down, where the larger wounds were still bleeding sluggishly. He nodded, carefully.

“I'll need your help,” Komatsu said, but he was full of determination. And he kept his first aid kits very, very well stocked these days, above and beyond what a restaurant really required.

When Starjun was bandaged, Komatsu was shaking, and covered in enough blood to look like a murder victim. Starjun had only whined once, but his mouth was pressed into a thin, painful line, and the excruciating pain he had to be in showed.

“Water,” Komatsu said gently. “Starjun, you've lost too much blood—you need to drink some water. Would something to eat help?”

Starjun nodded again, looking away. Maybe upset he needed so much assistance. That he hadn't chased away the intruding wolf on his own, no matter how hard he'd fought.

“Let's get you into bed first,” Komatsu said, stubbornly. “If—can you move?”

“Of course,” Starjun said—still a werewolf, a bit of pride in his voice. Komatsu just nodded—of course Starjun could. He wished he didn't have to, but—the floor was no place for a patient, Komatsu's bed the only alternative except for the too-short couch, and Komatsu himself was far too tiny to pick up and carry Starjun.

Komatsu still took as much weight as he could, helping Starjun stay balanced as he slowly limped down the mercifully short hallway.

“I should bathe,” Starjun said, stopping dead just across the threshold—Komatsu stopping with him, because even with Starjun almost bleeding out and shaking with pain and the effort of movement, he couldn't move Starjun an inch without his cooperation.

“No,” Komatsu said, a little horrified at the idea. “Starjun! You need to rest—”

He was looking down at the new spots of blood blooming on the bandages around his torso, where movement had made the wounds bleed faster. And he was ignoring Komatsu, face betraying only mild irritation as he cataloged the blood—and there was some ground-in mud, it looked like, smears of dirt—covering him, fresh or dried or drying depending on where it was, how fresh.

“Starjun! Get into bed. Go on.” Komatsu could only tell him to go—he couldn't push Starjun. Starjun could overpower him even like this. “I can wash the sheets later—”

“They'll stain,” Starjun said doubtfully, eying the white cotton fabric. “Komatsu—”

“Then I'll buy new ones or keep the stained ones! Please, Starjun.”

Slowly, Starjun crossed the last few feet, slowly letting himself collapse onto the bed. Komatsu sighed in relief, turning to go—stopped by a hand as immoveable as iron wrapping around his wrist, Starjun gasping slightly at the pain of movement. “Don't go,” Starjun said—almost begged, and it hurt so much, a deep lonely ache for whatever the werewolf had been through, that Komatsu had to go and hug him, pressing close, careful of his wounds and making Starjun lie down again.

“I'll be back. You need water,” Komatsu said. “Right back—just give me fifteen minutes for water and food.”

“Yes, alpha,” Starjun murmured, letting go, and Komatsu couldn't argue.

After all, he was acting like Starjun's alpha at the moment. The way _he_ was an alpha, and the way that Starjun needed of him, then and there—part of him suddenly even more furious at Starjun's old pack, no matter how little he knew about them, and the rest of him not able to take that away from Starjun, not able to deny it, when he was in so much pain.

He brought back plain rice and shredded chicken cooked to tenderness, mild foods because he didn't know if Starjun would want to eat. A pitcher of water, and a glass., even if it would probably be a few hours before Starjun could handle the pitcher by himself. He needed a second trip to bring in a chair to set up by the bed, to keep vigil for the werewolf, but Starjun grabbed for him again.

“Stay,” Starjun said. “Please.” Like he didn't want to admit how much he meant the words, how important it was to him.

“I'm going to get a chair,” Komatsu said. “I'll be right back—”

Agonizingly—it had to be agonizing, even if Komatsu could see Starjun just barely flinch—he rolled over, leaving a bare space on the bed big enough for Komatsu—apparently all he could do. He stayed silent, not speaking, and Komatsu wasn't sure he understood—

“You want...”

“Yes,” Starjun said.

“On the bed? It won't—if you want more space—”

“I wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it,” Starjun said, a little bit of steel in his voice, a little bit of flame—contrasting to the way he'd turned his head away, to keep from looking at Komatsu, equal parts defensive and wanting.

“If you're comfortable with it!” Komatsu said, passing him a glass of water. Starjun drank it, obediently, and Komatsu refilled the glass and put it on the bedside table before settling himself down next to the werewolf. He closed his eyes and settled in, careful not to push too close to Starjun because of his injuries—politely ignoring the unexpected relief and surprise on Starjun's face.

He relaxed a little bit more himself when Starjun drew even closer, clawed fingers lacing gently through his own. He had to smile at that, eyes still closed, not knowing if Starjun saw it—but it was comfortable, like this, the two of them.

Komatsu wasn't sure when he drifted off to sleep, but he awoke to find Toriko on Starjun's other side, Coco at the foot of the bed.

“She was mostly dead even before we found her,” Coco said, when Komatsu looked at him, a sleepy question in his eyes. “Starjun almost had her. We're safe now.”

“And Starjun?”

“He'll be fine.” Starjun stirred just a little at his name, eyes flicking open for a second, before he settled back into apparently deep, dreamless sleep. “Sunny's cleaning up the blood here—and Zebra's taking care of the body.”

“Thank you,” Komatsu said, and the thump of Toriko's tail against the bed, and Starjun licking once or twice, dreamy and apparently still not awake, at Komatsu's shoulder, were a balm to his stressed nerves. He let himself relax—not quite ready to fall asleep again—instead enjoying the warmth and comfort of the bodies around him.

* * *

The moon was full even though the clouds were too thick to see through, and Kings were their wolf-selves. It was, like always, one of the things Komatsu looked forward to the most.

It helped that now—unlike the first time—he came prepared, with warm clothes and some food packed for himself (because he didn't want to eat still-steaming raw elk meat) and, inevitably, for the others—just a few bites, mostly because Toriko was shameless no matter what time of the month it was, and because Komatsu _liked_ sharing with him, with all of them. He brought them all a picnic breakfast, left in the car, and because the weather was threatening, he'd lashed up a small tarp to give him a little shelter. He didn't have to worry about cold—the Kings kept him safe, and made sure he was warm, even if he was finally getting to the point where he could argue all four of them into hunting together, leaving him alone for periods of time. It wasn't like anything would attack him on their territory on the full moon!

Of course, he always trusted them to look after him. To come back. He knew he'd been afraid the first time he'd seen them transformed—he knew he'd had every reason to—but he also just _couldn't imagine it_ anymore. What it was like to not have his heart swell with love each time he looked at them, transformed or not. They weren't monsters, they were _his_ , his Kings.

“I'll be fine!” Komatsu protested, pushing at Coco, who was refusing to budge. “Come on—go hunt. Coco! Go _on_ —”

Toriko was staring off at the darkness, and he made a noise in his throat, something not a growl, bark or howl, that had the others staring too. Komatsu had no idea what it was, but that didn't worry him. _Finally_ , Coco capitulated, getting up from where he was sprawled against Komatsu, leaving him with one final lick, a spot of warmth and then cold on his wrist.

He wasn't expecting them back for a while, so he settled in, wrapping himself in the old sleeping bag he brought along for these kinds of situations—the sleeping bag absolutely _covered_ in fur. When he'd brought it in to the cleaners, the woman at the desk had had all sorts of questions about his dogs, and he'd gone tongue tied, not trusting himself to speak as he thought of his Kings, wild and glorious and still sweet, but as far away from a dog as it was possible to get, really.

The thump of paws made him look up, confused, just as the Kings burst back into the clearing—the Kings plus one, he realized, trying to discern different shapes in the dim light—that was Toriko, and Zebra, and—

“Starjun?!” Komatsu yelped, and the strange figure ducked low, ears going back, apparently shy all of a sudden. He knew that Starjun was living in these woods—he knew that he was always somewhere in the area the night of the full moon, avoiding the Kings as they ignored him—but he'd never _seen_ him before. ...And maybe Starjun himself was most of the reason why he hadn't, Komatsu thought, because he was still and unmoving, twenty feet away from Komatsu, despite the Kings around him pushing him towards Komatsu.

Toriko finally bit down on his nape—gently, by wolf standards, no blood drawn—and Starjun snapped at him, growling, finally standing and moving forward. Komatsu stared—that wasn't a submissive sound, and Starjun clearly didn't consider himself Toriko's subordinate in the pack, but—

It was Starjun. Komatsu had seen him in full wolf form before. He _knew_ the Kings would never bring danger to him.

Carefully, he stood, and held out his hand.

Starjun sidled up to him, hesitating just a second before he pushed his head into Komatsu's shoulder, then drew back just enough to thrust his nose into Komatsu's jacket, sniffing his neck, a rumble of enthusiastic happiness starting to reverberate through him.

Obligingly, Komatsu reached up to scratch behind his ears, paying careful attention to how Starjun responded. His fur wasn't nearly as long as his hair—or as long as Sunny's fur, for that matter—but it was still longer and more luxurious than any of the other Kings, and he was like a furnace. “You're so warm,” Komatsu murmured, knowing that Starjun probably wouldn't particularly care about the words, not like he was on the night of a full moon, driven by instinct and animal feeling.

Toriko appeared at his other side to lick enthusiastically at the side of his face and his hair, before pushing Komatsu down, then turning to growl at Starjun.

Slowly, Starjun sank down as well, crawling slowly closer to Komatsu, glancing at Toriko warily as he drew close.

“I guess you're staying with me this time,” Komatsu said, knowing that it would be pushing things to make Toriko and the Kings go hunting with Starjun—for now at least. Maybe not the future. _They_ had pushed and prodded Starjun towards him—they were trusting Starjun, even Starjun with his instincts unfettered, the wolf part of his mind in the forefront, to watch over Komatsu.

And Komatsu—he understood.

“You don't have to sit with me if you don't want!” Komatsu added, glancing over at him. “The Kings usually sit _on_ me, practically—but I'll be warm enough anyway. You don't have to—”

Starjun huffed, and curled up around Komatsu, fur tickling against his face for a second before they settled into place. He was warm—so warm—and Komatsu really _didn't_ need the warmth, but he relaxed into it anyway. The air was chill on his face, but the rest of him deliciously warm—the night chill and humid, rich with the smell of disturbed earth and broken foliage. It started raining, drumming on the tarp, Komatsu dry underneath it.

“Are you getting rained on?” Komatsu asked, just in case.

Starjun snorted at him, and Komatsu laughed, sheepishly. It was—good, Starjun with him. Not threatening, not at _all_ , not as familiar (and comfortable) as it was with the Kings but still—safe, secure. It was good, to have him ignore Komatsu a little, aloof and dangerous and not at all frightening despite it.

“Can I pet you?” Komatsu asked, not really expecting an answer.

After a second, Starjun pushed his head onto Komatsu's lap, so that he could reach his ears.

Komatsu scratched obediently, happy to give this to Starjun—Starjun, who tended to avoid touch when he didn't think it was his duty, something owed to his alpha—when he wanted it. Happy to have this wolf with him, no matter what he'd done. _Happy_ , because this was Starjun, head pillowed on Komatsu's knee, twenty degrees hotter than a human was no matter what shape he was in.

Silently, letting him sink into the quiet wildness of the full moon, Komatsu passed over a bite of chicken from his dinner. He just barely felt Starjun's teeth as, hesitating just a moment, the werewolf took it, rough tongue and the prickle of whiskers, after just a second.

Komatsu didn't know what made pack and not-pack, not really. He just knew who he _trusted_ , and what (everything) he trusted them with. He didn't know if Starjun had crossed over that line—

He suspected yes, with the werewolf keeping him company on the full moon like it was an honor, but Komatsu didn't care. Not right then, with Starjun surrounding him, and his Kings coming back to him when they were done, and the full moon somewhere high above the treetops and the falling rain and the cloud cover.

-end-


End file.
